Eighty-two

SURE enough, Tristan had an account, though the profile wasn’t in his name, or even his gender.

Posing as a bisexual woman named “Tricia,” Tristan had exchanged dozens of messages with “Richard Crest” and a woman named “Red,” whose profile photo looked an awful lot like a young Lucille Ball.

Was young Lucy really Douglas Farthing, aka Red Beard? When I saw a reference to Carol Lynn’s street address on Barrow, I knew it was!

I used my own smartphone to snap screenshots of these archived messages, including Red’s agreement to work for Tricia/Tristan by making “candy” deliveries. So much for the “high-paying digital gig” Doug claimed he was getting. Red Beard’s new job, if he had lived, would have been trafficking drugs.

When I saw “Tricia” traded messages with “Harry Krinkle,” I knew I’d hit the jackpot. I also discovered that my guilt over luring Crenshaw to his death was greatly exaggerated.

Robert Crenshaw hadn’t come to the Village Blend to meet “Kara.” It was Ferrell, using his “Tricia” account, who’d brought Crenshaw to my coffeehouse on the night of his murder . . .

Urgent news. Must meet now!

Take outside table, last one on corner.

The timing and specificity of the request convinced me. Tristan appeared to have pulled the trigger on his Hookster partner. And he’d used Red Beard to help frame Carol Lynn, which meant he was the one who’d paid him off in the deadly Styx that nearly killed Matt.

You were right, Madame, I thought. Curse away!

Finally, I noticed a contacts folder on Tristan’s phone labeled “Hook’s Crew.” Opening it up, I recognized names from Franco’s list of drug dealers, who were slated to be arrested within hours. He’d shared it with me in hopes of finding connections with Ferrell. Well, here they were!

Judging from the date, time, and “Hook’s Crew” name of the folder, my guess was that Ferrell had downloaded these contacts from Crenshaw’s phone right after shooting the man.

It looked like Ferrell had decided to take over the Styx drug-dealing business from Crenshaw. Was that the reason he murdered him? The two had been friends for years, dating back to when they were fraternity brothers. They’d gone into business together, weathered storms together, and from that warm bro shake I saw them share in Soho, I couldn’t help wondering what had prompted Ferrell to turn so viciously on his old friend. But there was no time to look for more answers now. I’d already found enough evidence to have Ferrell arrested and his business investigated by the OD Squad. I quickly snapped screenshots of the incriminating messages, sent them to Franco’s and Tucker’s phones, and returned to the party.

Tristan was finishing his last pose as I slipped the phone back into his jacket. Suddenly, he performed a quick, unexpected flip, and faced me. I couldn’t be sure, but it was possible he’d seen what I’d done.

The Madagascar Lemur demonstration ended to cheers and applause. Even Madame acted suitably impressed, and Sergeant Jones shook the guru’s hand.

While Tristan donned his loafers and jacket, I hurried for the exit. I was in such a rush I even left my wrap at the coat check. There was no time to alert Nancy or Madame that I was leaving. When I hit the street, I would text Franco, telling him I was about to catch a cab to meet up with him. Then he could officially take my “statement” about what I’d witnessed at the party—as a “concerned citizen,” of course.

Unfortunately, the single elevator closed in my face. My heart pounded, and my adrenaline levels went through the roof while I waited for the agonizingly slow return of the car. When the door finally opened again, I rushed inside and pounded the button.

The sliding doors were just about to close when a smiling Tristan swiftly entered, along with a few partygoers.

I thought about escaping, but before the doors closed, he subtly blocked my way and began engaging me in polite conversation.

“Ms. Cosi, right? Your boss seems quite interested in my Critter Crawl philosophy. I think she sees the potential . . .”

Thank God he was talking up his business, not asking questions. Perhaps he hadn’t seen me with his phone, after all.

“I’m off to Seattle in the morning, Portland after that. I think young people in those cities will be especially receptive to my message . . .”

No doubt they’ll be receptive to the Styx you’re dealing, too, I thought.

Clenching my jaw into a smiling position, I tried hard to keep a pleasant face—and those images of Matt lying close to death out of my mind.

When the doors opened, Tristan and I faced two exits, one to the street, the other to the 79th Street Boat Basin.

As the other guests departed toward the street, Tristan firmly hooked my arm in his. “Do you want to see my boat? She’s a Riva. You’re Italian, right? You should really appreciate her sleek lines.”

Before I could decline or break away, he used his jacket to shield a weapon—what felt like the barrel of a small gun was now pressing into my kidney.

“We’re going on a boat ride, Ms. Cosi. I’m not going to hurt you. But I do insist you tell me why you’re so interested in my phone . . .”

He led me through the door to the Boat Basin. The night air was bracing, and I shivered in my flimsy cocktail dress. I thought I might have a chance to escape, or alert some passerby to my plight, but the man’s boat was moored no more than a dozen steps from the Anchor and Light.

“Get in,” he commanded.

Despite his claim not to “hurt” me, I knew who this man really was. Any boat ride with him on the Hudson was going to end on the River Styx.

With a violent tug, I freed my arm to run. But before I could take a step or draw breath to shout “Help!” Tristan lashed out.

Then everything went dark.